


until i'm ready (i kinda like it)

by infernal



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Arranged Marriage as Peace Treaty, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 05:38:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20465903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/infernal/pseuds/infernal
Summary: The tentative peace between Heaven and Hell requires a visible, tangible, mark of their union; Crowley and Aziraphale are volunteered.





	until i'm ready (i kinda like it)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thinlizzy2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/gifts).

"_I ain't ready,_" the song on the radio says, and Aziraphale lets out a choked, nervous laugh that doesn't hold much humor. 

"This whole thing is rather silly, isn't it?" he asks, his eyes sliding over to Crowley, who is trying his utmost to not make eye contact. Crowley's attempt is helped by the sunglasses, of course, but somewhat hindered by the fact that the alternative to looking at Aziraphale is looking at their surroundings.

"_Silly_ isn't exactly the word I'd use," Crowley says. 

"Nor would I," says Hastur from the backseat, gloom in his voice. Every so often he kicks the back of Crowley's seat, like a child showing displeasure at having to go home before they'd finished having all their fun.

"Well, I think it's neat," Gabriel says from beside him. The window is rolled down, and his head is sticking out to better see the neon lights they pass by; he reminds Crowley of a golden retriever excited to be out for a drive, except not nearly as endearing. "You know, I've never been to this city." 

"No? Head office not too keen on all the sex and gambling?" 

"Oh, no, that part's fine," Gabriel says. "It's just, you know. A little garish, but I think I like it."

"It's _tacky_," Aziraphale sniffs. Privately, Crowley agrees, but the wedding had to take place on neutral ground, meaning Earth, and with great expediency, which was why they were currently idling in the drive-thru of a chintzy Vegas chapel, with Hastur and Gabriel serving as representatives -- and witnesses -- for their respective home offices.

Tacky as it is, the officiant is, at least, not dressed in an Elvis costume, but in a respectable, well-tailored suit, which seems to lift Aziraphale's spirits a little. He reads through a generic speech rather quickly -- this is all supposed to be over within five minutes, after all -- and then asks for their vows. "In twenty words or less, if you please," he adds, an apologetic note in his voice. "I'm afraid we're double-booked tonight. We'd be happy to offer you a coupon for a divorce lawyer as apology for the inconvenience."

Twenty words suits Crowley just fine, since even if he were willing to say everything that's been wanting to spill out of him since Rome, if not before -- well, he's hardly about to say all of that in front of _Gabriel_. Aziraphale beats him to the punch, and reaches out, placing a hand on Crowley's arm. "I promise to cherish this arrangement much as I have our previous one," he says, his voice soft.

Crowley loses his voice for a moment. "I swear the same," he finally says after a long pause that has the officiant drumming his fingers impatiently on the ledge of the drive-thru window. It's hardly an adequate promise, but it's all he can do in the moment.

"The rings, please," the officiant says, peeking his head at the long line of cars behind them. They'd bought the rings in a hurry, and Crowley knows there's very little sentiment behind the one Aziraphale slips onto his finger, but it's overwhelming all the same: the weight of the ring, the way it's still warm from being tucked into Aziraphale's jacket pocket.

"I pronounce you both husbands," the officiant says. "You may kiss."

And somehow, Crowley had forgotten about this part. He freezes, and it's Aziraphale who leans over, their hands still intertwined, and presses their lips together. It's brief, and chaste, and a little dry, and it's more than Crowley has ever allowed himself to believe he would ever be able to have. 

The officiant gives them a polite, harried, "Congratulations!" before tossing the aforementioned divorce coupon through Crowley's open window and slamming the drive-thru window closed, and Crowley somehow manages to gather himself together enough to pull the car ahead and into a parking lot.

"Finally," Hastur mutters, and practically throws himself out of the car. 

Gabriel does so more leisurely, first leaning into the front seat to pluck the coupon from Crowley's lap. "Not a bad deal. Oh, but don't forget, if you get divorced, Armageddon will happen," he says cheerfully, before hopping out of the car to follow Hastur, who appears to be heading to the nearest casino.

Aziraphale has his forehead resting on the dashboard, his fingertips pressed to his lips. From the radio, "_My game of love has just begun,_" rings out, and Aziraphale lets out another nervous laugh.

"Angel," Crowley says, "are you all right?"

"Well, Aziraphale says. His voice is slow, like he's really giving the question his full consideration. "At least this time, averting the apocalypse took a lot less running around like chickens with our heads cut off." 

"And it didn't take nearly as long," Crowley says, and then thinks of Gabriel's warning. Not nearly as long? No, it would be far, far longer, with all of forever sprawling out in front of them. The idea is as unnerving to Crowley as it is appealing: surely everything is about to change, already _has_ changed, instantly and irrevocably.

* * *

Reassuringly, maddeningly, everything stays the same. 

Not _everything_ everything -- Heaven and Hell both have given them a considerable amount of vacation time, which means on top of all of his anxiety about the situation, Crowley is _bored_. And that boredom has him darkening Aziraphale's doorstep -- apprehensively, at first, and then with more enthusiasm when Aziraphale greets him as brightly as ever. 

The sheer mundanity of everything has him feeling strangely restless over the next few weeks, somehow tethered and unmoored at the same time. They drink and talk long into the night, just like before -- except now, Crowley sees, when they've drunk enough, Aziraphale's fingers slide to his wedding band, twist it on his finger thoughtfully. 

And then things _do_ change, at least a little. One night when Crowley is watching Aziraphale slide the wedding band across his finger, Aziraphale's eyes shoot up unexpectedly, catching Crowley's gaze on the path of the metal band. There's something knowing in the look he gives Crowley, who is drunk enough to obviously panic, standing up quickly enough to knock is chair over. "Sorry, sorry," he says, straightening it up. "Just remembered. The plants, you know. Terrible things, always needing me to water them, no matter how much I scream at them. Well, cheers, see you next time." 

"Crowley," Aziraphale says, and he stops in his tracks. Aziraphale bridges the distance between them, taking Crowley's left hand with his own; their rings touch, a brief clink of metal, and Crowley is lost for words yet again. "My dear boy, you really do have yourself worked up over this whole marriage thing, don't you?" 

His expression is extraordinarily patient, which is absolutely ludicrous to Crowley, because hasn't _he_ been the patient one all this time? "Angel," he says, unsure of where the sentence is going, but it doesn't matter, because Aziraphale is bridging the distance again, sweeping in to kiss him. 

It is, decidedly, _not_ like the kiss at their wedding; Crowley's lips are still wet with the wine they'd been drinking, tinged purple in the corners from it, and Aziraphale's tongue darts out to chase the flavour from them. Crowley lets his mouth fall open, lets Aziraphale in. 

"Angel," he says again, when they part for air that their constructed lungs don't quite need, though Crowley feels rather breathless all the same. "You do realize that this... variation on the Arrangement is fine as it is. It doesn't require --"

"Consummation?" Aziraphale finishes, eyebrows arching. Crowley, who has thought up until this point that he was lucky just to feel the dry press of lips under the glow of neon lights a single time, doesn't sputter at the word, but it's a near thing. "I realize," he continues carefully, "that I've taken rather a long to catch up to you. But I'm here now, all the same."

"I've enjoyed waiting," Crowley says. "Angel, I'd wait for you forever." 

"Crowley, dear heart, I'm saying that you don't _have_ to." And there is that infuriating patience again, and Crowley lets out a small hiss, leaning forward to kiss him again; cautiously, at first, like Aziraphale might not allow it after all, despite his invitation.

Aziraphale is only too happy to let himself be kissed until that caution slides away.


End file.
